Two Virtues
by Looly
Summary: [oneshot] Modesty and unselfishness: these are two virtues which men praise, and pass by.” In which five children lie to the world and to themselves.


Disclaimer: Not mine!

Two Virtues

by Looly

"Modesty and unselfishness: these are two virtues which men praise, and pass by." –Andre Maurois

* * *

"I can't," she says as she breaks away from him, and even before the words leave her lips she can feel her heart breaking. 

But it isn't really a matter of_ can't_. It is a matter of _won't_, and perhaps if the situation were a matter of the former, it wouldn't hurt quite so much. Briefly, the words 'it's not _fair_' flutter through her mind, and for a moment, she is the child she should have been. A child with two parents to watch her grow and teach her; a child with the right to make mistakes; a child with the right to throw tantrums over unattainable wishes, to ignore what would be polite to do in favor of what she wants to do, or even to have the freedom to cry over broken toys.

And then it is gone.

"I can't," she says.

Because she isn't a child, and hasn't been a child for a long, long time. She has been a woman her whole life, it seems, and a mother for even longer. They need her, and she cannot (will not) leave them while they still thirst for some semblance of a mother. Childhood is gone, and after all they have gone through, it will never be possible to return to such days of innocence, unblemished by fear and sadness and anger.

Because she is their mother, and without her, their family would surely fall apart. Because she holds the heart of the messiah, and so long as she maintains a grip upon it, she cannot bring herself to crush it (and thus, crush him). Because it is her responsibility, even if she never asked for it, and she cannot (will not) shrug it off like a coward.

"I can't," she says, biting her way through the pain and the unfairness and the desire to say, _But let's do it anyway._

And so she leaves him alone in the night, because her duty will always lay with others before herself.

* * *

"I'll be alright," she says, and smiles, all the while knowing it wouldn't take earthbending to tell she was lying. 

A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The mantra repeats over and over again in her head, and she finds it strangely comforting. Just as every crack of a wall must be filled, so she fills every crack of her being. Every sadness, every disappointment, every wish and every regret. Each and every crack is covered over, disguising a thoroughly cracked wall as an unblemished one.

She will_ not_ be the weakest link.

"I'll be alright," she says.

Because she promised her allegiance to him, and because he is her friend, and because they are all her friends and how could she ever leave them now? They need her, and she couldn't possibly let herself succumb to the overwhelming desire to crumble after keeping it together for so long.

Because home was never really home, and her parents were never what parents were supposed to be (but is it really so wrong to miss them, anyway?). Because fighting and saving the world is what happiness really is—to be surrounded by friends and to have the freedom to go wherever one so pleased. Because happiness isn't a warm bed with two loving parents to kiss her goodnight, or a beautiful cage to protect her from the cruel world of war and poverty and death, and it certainly shouldn't be a life kept secret from the world because she was nothing but an embarrassment.

"I'll be alright," she says, and her voice softens just enough to let one crack show. _I miss them, I want to go home, I can't stand breaking their hearts._

And just as soon as it starts to show, the crack is smoothed over, because she will not drag them down with burdens that are not theirs to carry.

* * *

"I don't love you," he says as he stands to leave, marveling at how thin the line between courage and cowardice is. 

How far from the truth the words are. But, he tells himself, it is out of necessity and love—true love—that he snaps her in two. He has learned from his past mistakes. Love during war is a rare thing, and even more dangerous. And so, as he leaves her and her shattered heart behind, he tells himself that he breaks her out of love (not fear, no no _no_). Because warriors cannot have connections and they cannot have weaknesses. A warrior's heart belongs only to a warrior's country and its people, and a warrior's heart may never be broken by the words of a woman, only the sword of a man, and that is that.

It is easier to blow out the candle than wait for the wick to melt.

"I don't love you," he says.

Because he may not love his country more than he loves her, but the choice was never his to make and had already _been_ made from the moment he held a sword in his hand and placed the helmet of a warrior onto his head. Because to drop his sword and helmet to the ground and turn his back on his people was never a choice he would willingly make. Because no matter how many times he may tell _her_ to do it, she will shake her head every time, and he can do nothing but let her go because he could never do it, either.

Because no matter how many generations pass by, and no matter how many people say otherwise, he knows himself to be a coward. Because it was never about the rest of the world coming first—it was always about her, her, _her_, and how utterly afraid he is to lose her. Because in his heart there is a difference between losing her to another man and losing her to another world, and he knows which is the lesser evil even if they both leave him empty and alone.

"I don't love you," he says, taking her in for what could be his last time, before leaving her for what just may be forever. _But I do, don't you see that's why I couldn't possibly bring myself to _stay

And the warrior leaves the woman he loves behind, because he will always love her more, and in his greatest strength lays his greatest weakness.

* * *

"I don't want this," he says as he leaves behind everything,_ everything_, and feels a pang of pain in his chest because he was never as good a liar as his sister. 

It was home, once. But the days of family and warm beds and innocence felt so far away that he wondered if they ever truly existed. Yet, he was sure that there had been days when his father had smiled and patted his head. Once, he could have sworn, his mother had kissed his father's cheek, and smiled shyly as he held her hand. Had his own sister ever been a true sister instead of a rival, who built castles alongside him instead of kicking sand in his face?

The days that his memory so desperately clings to have been dead and buried for many years, but he still finds himself chasing after glimpses of what once was, what could have been, what _should_ have been.

"I don't want this," he says.

Because he knows now that the past is to be left in the past, and to even attempt recreating memories is both foolish and impossible. Because there is nothing he can do but dismiss the illusions, the memories, and open himself to the truth. Seeing the truth may hurt more than living a comfortable life of lies, but in the end he knows which could do the more damage. But it still hurts to let go.

Because it is everything that he knows to be happiness. Because it was the only time in his life when he felt truly innocent and whole. Because it is what he has devoted his life to, it is the moment he has trailed after for years on end. It was the goal that was _just_ out of reach for so very long, and to finally have it all in his hand was the sole thing he had wanted more than anything in the world. Because he finally held in his hand all of his dreams, no matter how distorted they had become, and to give it all up is the one thing he would never have even considered.

"I don't want this," he says, and surveys the world that was once meant to be his own, that he once called home, that he had spent years dreaming of being welcomed into as a man instead of a traitor._ This is my home, these are my people, this is all supposed to be_ mine

And so the prince abandons everything he has ever wanted, because he has been holding on to something that never really deserved to be held onto, and he knows now that it is time to let go of his dreams and instead reach for the dreams of his people.

* * *

"I'm not afraid," he says, wearing a face of stone, and wishing that perhaps his heart would stop racing and his brain would stop whispering, _You will fail and they will die and everyone will be let down._

But he can't be scared, and he can't hesitate, and he can't have second thoughts. Not now, when they are so close to victory that they can almost touch it. He can't freeze up with doubts, and it's too late to turn back and say that maybe _this_ should have been done in a different way, or _that_ shouldn't have happened at all. Words left unsaid are better left that way, because any time spent on silly things such as love and friendship is time _not_ spent on defeating an empire. There is a world looking to him for guidance, and it's time to step up and be the leader that they've all been waiting for.

He can only hope that he'll measure up.

"I'm not afraid," he says.

Because they've been waiting for him—yes, they've been waiting, and they've been suffering, and they've been crying for a savior to lead them into a better world. Because everything comes down to him, a (one hundred and) thirteen-year old boy, and he _can't_ let them down. Because he isn't just a boy—he is _the boy_, the _one_, the messiah, the promised one—and he is all of those things before he is a _just a boy_. Because it is his duty, even if he never signed up for it, and he has already learned what happens when one shrugs responsibilities from one's shoulders.

Because he must do it, if not for the world—and though certainly not for himself—then for the people he loves. Because he would do anything for them, even if it meant surrendering himself (his happiness, his freedom, his life). Because even if the millions of the people counting on him were not worth it, _they are_, and that makes all the difference. Because, he realizes, nobody need look past their little family to see the world itself and everything that is wrong with it (_fire_corruption _water_murder _earth_censorship_ air_genocide _human_war), and that is something that must be remedied.

"I'm not afraid," he says, feeling the arms of his friends around him, wishing him good luck and telling him how much they love him, and finds himself thinking, _I wish you wouldn't ask this of me, I never wanted any of this._

And he is gone, whether to be remembered as a boy who truly lived or as a savior who simply died, he does not want to know.

* * *

Egad! Writing this--while listening to Fiona Apple's cover of Across the Universe, I feel the need to add--made me want to jump off a cliff. I need to write happier fics. I also have this weird need to follow patterns in pieces like this. It's very aggravating and a bit restricting, but my brain is just saying, "IT MOST GO LIKE THIS DO IT DO IT DO IT" and who can go against a crazy voice like that? Also, Sokka is definitely my favorite part of this whole thing. Anyway: please review! I really like knowing what you all think. 


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